Poses
by columbiachica
Summary: All these poses, such beautiful poses. Life's not a fairytale, Rory finds. [Angsty Lit]


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Poses

By kat

"All these poses, such beautiful poses…"

-Rufus Wainwright, "Poses"

Rory Gilmore was bitter.

She wasn't the kind of bitter that glared, obvious, at everyone who passed. She didn't wear tight, ugly clothes that hugged in the wrong spots or dark lipstick and she didn't chain-smoke or sit in thickly clogged bars, drinking bourbon. Rory was the quiet kind of bitter, underneath her perfectly pressed Banana Republic clothes, her slick, shiny hair, her neat, clean makeup. But it was still there. 

Right now, though, with the sun in her eyes, her body hidden only by a flimsy off-white sheet, Rory wished she were a smoker. The man next to her was sound asleep, totally oblivious to her awakening. _Just like always_, Rory thought darkly, making sure he really was asleep before slipping out from the bedding and gathering clothes to put on. Quietly, she dressed, found her purse and slipped out of apartment 3209, jogged down the steps and released herself into the smoggy Los Angeles air.

Yesterday's clothes were rumpled, a button missing on her blouse, near the bottom, when he'd gotten frustrated. As she walked down the sidewalk, Rory fingered its lack, feeling tears welling in her eyes. She wanted her mommy, her Rufus Wainwright album, some coffee. But she was an adult, dammit; she'd had experience before, even a one-night stand; she could handle this.

She could definitely handle this, she thought as a tear sneaked down her cheek.

--

This is how it began.

Rory decided she needed a drink. It was a rather unusual impulse for her, but she needed one, her body told her. So she walked the short distance to the nearest club, for L.A. was rife with them. Her work clothes looked out of place with the rest of clientele, but Rory was about to collapse for want of a martini.

"Dry," she told the bartender when she ordered it, sitting primly at the bar with her legs crossed. No one was looking anyway. Without a second glance, the barkeep slid the drink across the bar on a napkin. Grateful, Rory sipped the alcohol, feeling the past day—no, no the past year—slide down her throat, coating it, stinging a little. 

Brave due to the alcohol, Rory surveyed the earsplitting club, watching these wildly drunken, uninhibited people fling their bodies about with wild abandon Rory thought existed only on TV. They looked oddly foreign to her, not human, their skin bathed in green and blue and red, the lights shifting on them, dizzying.

She signaled to the bartender; another, please. He obliged her, then went back to flirting with the California blonde at the end. Idly, she noticed, he looked kind of familiar. Kind of like…

But that boy was long gone. To Rory, he might as well have been dead. The first boy to truly break her heart, leaving wordlessly, an autumn leaf. Those dull, numb weeks afterward, her innocent, open, girlish heart clenching tightly in her chest. Her solemn vow that she'd never let anyone else in again. The risk was too great, the consequences too painful.

The light shimmered on the top of his heavily gelled hair. He leaned close to the blonde, his elbows on the bar. An expert, she leaned forward too, her breasts (probably fake, Rory thought cynically) heaving out of the halter. Her finger trailed down his bare arm and he ducked his head to her.

Rory downed the rest of the drink in a harsh gulp, felt the welcome burn. More, she signaled. More. She wondered if he'd recognize her. This time, she asked for straight vodka. This prompted a look, directly into her face. She saw it hit him, saw the recognition momentarily darken his eyes, transform his face. He stared, and Rory, unwilling to let him see any vulnerability, stared right back. Her unwavering stare seemed to unnerve him and he just pushed the drink over the bar with a new napkin.

"Enjoy," he said with a smirk.

"No worries," Rory countered, downing her vodka shot in one enormous gulp. Tomorrow morning was going to be hell to pay.

"Another?" he asked. The blonde at the end was looking impatient.

Slapping another bill on the wood, Rory challenged him with her eyes. A vodka slid toward her and Rory swallowed it hard. Jess's eyes changed. Instead of the dim look of recognition, they were starting to burn with frustration.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Un-fucking-believable."

"Ran out of vodka?" Rory asked coolly.

Jess just glowered and poured her another shot. 

"You're getting wasted," he observed, his voice chilly. "Rory Gilmore, the angel, drunk off her ass at some seedy nightclub."

"Is it your job to pass judgement?" A slight pause. "I didn't think so." The hardness in her words surprised even Rory. She sounded truly cold.

Jess poured her yet another shot, her fourth. Third? Fifth? She wasn't sure. The blonde had left, moved on to another dark-haired, muscled specimen.

Ten minutes later, near midnight, Rory caught Jess looking at her as he dried glasses. Instead of blushing, looking down, like she might have ten years ago, Rory looked right back, unashamed. Jess conversed with another guy, let himself out from behind the bar, and whisked past her, behind a door.

Well.

Rory started unsteadily shoving her glasses away, pulling her purse toward her. Oh, shit. She hardly had any cash left. Rolling her eyes, Rory stood up and hobbled out the door, everything shifting in and out of focus as she made her way outdoors. Where the hell was the bus stop?

Five minutes passed as Rory surveyed the sidewalk as best she could with her bleary eyes. She couldn't see any evidence of a bus stop, or a bus, or any public transportation whatsoever.

"Sightseeing?" a voice behind her asked.

"I love barred windows," Rory said, a slight hitch in her response. Oh, Christ, she really was drunk. She hadn't been swimming in alcohol for a long time; she forgot just how much it threw her. 

"Come on." Jess tugged her arm.

"No." Rory shook his grip off. It tipped her balance and she overcompensated, tilting dangerously the other way. Jess caught her deftly and set her on her feet.

"Where the hell are you going, anyway?"

"My hotel," Rory said hazily.

"And where might that be?"

"Down… Madison? Madison and Ninety-Fifth?"

"Right." Jess shook his head. "And how are you getting there?"

"Bus."

This elicited an out-and-out laugh. "Right. Come on, Rory." Jess slid his arm around her waist and let her lean against him. His weight was reassuring and the leather of his jacket felt good against her cheek.

They walked for several blocks, through what Rory assumed wasn't the best part of town, and stopped before a dingy-looking building.

"Where are we?"

"My apartment."

Rory crinkled her eyebrow. "I think I should go to my hotel."

"I think you're going to pass out and choke on your own vomit." Jess ushered her in, past the heavy metal security door and up several flights of stairs. 

They reached his apartment, near the end of a hallway, by a window with, of course, bars over it. "Go on," he said, urging her inside.

Jess flicked the light on. It buzzed loudly, hurting Rory's delicate head. She blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. Books were scattered everywhere, she was quick to notice. Some things truly never changed. It was clean inside, but everything was just a little dilapidated, looked second- or third-hand. She allowed a grin when she thought of Emily in such surroundings.

He handed her some water, but Rory waved it away. "Fine," Jess said. "Have fun tomorrow."

When he returned from the kitchen, Rory was digging through his books, crouching near a pile. She stood up when she heard him, turned to face him. Her hair was loosening from its bun, her clothes hanging unevenly on her, her lips stained a deep red from the alcohol, from her biting it.

"So now that I'm here," Rory started, moving to him, "what are you going to do with me?"

"Put you to sleep," Jess said, moving away from her. "Stop, Rory," he requested when she kept advancing.

"I don't want to sleep."

"Not now. But you'll regret this."

Even in her inebriated state, Rory could see that this probably wasn't the best of ideas. But she felt this absurd need to prove something to him. _I can hurt you, too_, she wanted to say. _I'm an adult. I'm not a seventeen-year-old kid anymore. I drink. I sleep with people. You didn't destroy me. See?_

And then he was against the wall, Rory standing in front of him. The tension was palpable, all around them like humidity. For a second, Rory just stood there in front of him in her unkempt state, wavering lightly, lips parted. Without warning, she half-leaned, half-fell forward and crushed him to her, her whole body pressing him into the wall.

A long, tense moment passed and Rory thought he wasn't going to kiss her back. Then he sighed against her and clutched the back of her head. Just when she could feel him relax into the kiss, she dragged her lips away from his to his neck.

She felt his mouth open, felt the flexing in his jaw. She was sure he was going to protest. In this confused instant, she didn't want anyone to stop her. She sure as hell wasn't sixteen anymore. _Can't you see that?_ she seemed to say, pressing against him, grinding her hips.

All that came out his mouth was an unintelligible grunt. He unbuttoned her shirt swiftly. The last button was uncooperative and he simply tore it, tossing the shirt aside thoughtlessly. Greedily, he cupped both of her breasts, pressed his lips to the soft skin between them, inhaled her jasmine scent.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, all tender and sweet. Rory's hand clamped on the crotch of his pants and Jess's head sprang up, his eyes astonished. As best her drunken hands could, Rory undid his belt, his zipper and slid his boxers and pants to the floor.

Then her back was against the wall, sticky from sweat and Jess's hand was underneath her skirt. She breathed hard and swatted his fingers away, wrapping her legs around him. With no other choice, Jess supported her backside and shoved her harder against the wall, trapping them in a perspiring, shaky net.

The thrusting against the wall might have verged on painful if her senses hadn't already been dulled. It ended fast, faster than it would have if Rory had been sober, if Jess hadn't been surprised. They slid down the wall in a wet, gummy mess, her hair free and splaying all over them.

"Rory," Jess groaned. "Jesus," he said, pulling out of her, practically carrying her to his bedroom. "Jesus," he repeated.

--

And that was how she woke up, tangled with him. What in the hell had she been thinking?

She knew exactly what she'd been thinking, her alcohol-tainted brain taking over her basest desires. She'd wanted revenge, dammit; she'd wanted to make him feel that same sense of unspeakable loss; she'd wanted to make his heart alternately aching and insensate; she'd wanted him to see that he hadn't hurt her, not really.

In retrospect, that was the worst way to go about it. Now she was the hurt one, twisting inside, her stomach feeling bottomless. She felt sick and used and clammy. Her clothes were too tight, too much. Her own skin felt alien, constricting. 

The problem with her little revenge scheme was that Jess wasn't a teenage girl. His heart hadn't come programmed the same way. He'd already learned the lesson a long time ago: opening up only garnered agony. Should she really punish him just because it took her fifteen more years?

The sun was beating in her eyes, on her makeup-free face, her tired body. She was sixteen again. She was guileless. She was naïve. And, oh Christ, she'd just fucked Jess Mariano in his apartment and she had to catch a plane in three hours.

Rory held her hand up to shield her eyes from the sunlight. Then she looked behind her. Of course he wasn't following her. Of course. The sight of the empty sidewalk prompted another tear to spill. 

The sidewalk was so deserted. The sun was so bright and warm, the air so contaminated. Rory was so late.

Life wasn't a fairytale. The boy she'd loved so desperately when she was a teenager wasn't going to come running for her, proclaim his love. And now, she wasn't so sure she even wanted him to. What if Jess really was just a phase, an adolescent need for something tougher than Stars Hollow? Because that's what he was looking like, in the harsher light of day, her head pounding with a hangover.

So she kept walking, wishing for a cigarette.

"Life is a game and true love is a trophy…"

-Rufus Wainwright, "Poses"

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Author's Note: This is just a one-parter. Any and all feedback is more than welcome.


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